“Then you moved to Boston?”
“I was a sophomore in college and transferred up to UMass Boston. Nana offered me a position as her companion. It was her way to get around Grandfather’s disapproval. No more than three months after I moved in with them, Grandfather dropped any opposition.”
He could see the frustration in her face and knew the interview was about to end. “What about Harrison and Meme? What happened to your relationship?”
She waved her hand in front of her face. “What was Meme going to do? She had to put all her time and energy to Harrison. She didn’t have time for my troubles. What could I do then? I was only fourteen. The world as I knew it was over.”
Kincaid realized he needed more information, but she had given him enough to move ahead. He said in a low, but soothing voice, “I’m going to make this right for you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Her words were still wary, but firm. “You can’t turn back time. I faced the truth a long time ago and if you want the truth, write this down. I don’t believe Daddy killed himself.”
“But you found him, Riley,” Kincaid said, regretting causing her hurt. “As difficult as it must be to acknowledge, no one has ever questioned that fact.”
“I did. I always have.”
He realized it was useless to argue over her father’s death. Suicides were the hardest deaths to accept. He knew that, but yet uttered, “I will look into it if you want when I go down to Charleston.”
“You are going to Charleston?”
“I can only do so much from here. I’ll make some calls. If things pan out, I’ll leave next week.”
* * * *
Riley hadn’t been prepared for the effect the interview had on her. She was exhausted, with a sudden realization she needed to be alone. As she relived the past, she came to the realization she had to keep her distance from Kincaid or she would end up in his arms, begging him to stay.
A part of her wanted him to comfort her like he had last night. To provide a warm, safe place for her to hide. She wanted to hide. She was scared, ever so scared, but she could never admit it to the man in front of her.
But she was no coward. The words of warning resonated within her: trust no one.
She felt his eyes on her. Intense. Incredibly potent.
Slowly, he walked to her side. Softly, he brushed his fingertips over her lips. She closed her eyes. Before she could take her next breath, his mouth was on hers.
Their shared attraction flared. For a moment, everything was forgotten except his kiss, his touch…their desire.
Her name whispered on his lips. He broke from her and simply smiled, the intense passion still flaming in his eyes.
“I better go or I won’t,” he said in a low, deep voice. “I want to see you again…”
She took a deep breath, telling herself she couldn’t get involved with him. Not an investigative reporter. It was too dangerous. But he had a way of making her forget the possible consequences on acting on their desire for each other.
Riley said, “Saturday night. There is a gala at the Museum of Fine Arts. They are honoring Nana…if you want to come. It’s black tie.”
His lips twisted at the thought. “I believe I can make it. I’ll call you.”
She nodded, but he made no move toward the door. He laughed.
“I’ll need your number.”
“Of course,” she answered, feeling kind of foolish. “339-555-0520.”
A moment later, her phone rang. It rang again.
“Now, you have mine…if you want to talk.”
He sounded so sincere. She scolded herself for being such a ditz. She reached into her purse…and caught herself… She almost grabbed the wrong phone. She hesitated.
Quickly composing herself, she pressed a few buttons on the right phone. She smiled up at him. “I have it. Besides, I know where you work.”
“Yes, you do.” With that, he walked toward the door, glancing back only once with that smile that melted her soul.
He was gone.
It was quiet…too quiet. Looking out the window, she watched Kincaid round the corner of the house. He didn’t turn back. A part of her wanted him to turn around.
Get a grip! You don’t need him…you can’t lose your focus now. There is no going back.
She walked to the back door and let Bailey back into the house. As he romped happily beside her, Riley allowed her dog to jump on the couch and lay on her lap. Absentmindedly, she petted Bailey.
Tired, ever so tired. She should take a nap, but she couldn’t. Not until she had some semblance of a plan. Everything had gone so awry.
For over twenty-four hours, she hadn’t been alone long enough to face the truth. Anger, slow and warm, swelled within her heart. Someone had murdered Helen.
Did they suspect what she had done? Would she be the next victim?
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Her heart leaped into her throat. She reached for her phone…the other phone.
“Yes, it’s true.”
“No, I’m fine. Truly, I am.” There was a pause. “I have it. It’s safe.”
The conversation ended, brief and to the point.
Riley placed the phone back in her purse and walked back into her bedroom. She loved this room, full of character from days gone by. The house used to be a stable. Her great-grandfather had it converted into an apartment.
She had furnished her bedroom with some of the antique furniture she had found in the attic, including an old vanity from the 1930s—a lovely piece of furniture with a rose bubble lamp on top of white croquet round doilies, alongside a tray of bottle perfumes and an attached mirror.
The original long cushion stool sat in front. When Riley had taken it from the attic, she had discovered it had a hidden compartment under the cushion. A wonderful place to hide a document from prying eyes.
An important document that she insisted existed. Opening the stool up, she reached down and slid the false bottom to the side. It was there…her grandfather’s will. The one he had updated well before his death…the one where Riley had been included, splitting the part of her grandfather’s estate that would have been her father’s…the will that Walter said never existed.
The one that had gotten Helen Barlow murdered.
Chapter Seven
Detective John Brophy stood in the middle of Helen Barlow’s bedroom. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. He had come alone. This murder gnawed at him to the point he had returned to the scene of the crime.
The body was long gone. Crime-scene techs had all the evidence tagged, pictures taken, and the rooms dusted for prints. For two days now, an overabundance of investigators had been building a profile of the killer and searching for other similar murders in the federal database.
Despite the effort made, Brophy had nothing, except a growing frustration. Damn that Ashcroft kid! The whole scene had been compromised by that bumbling idiot. He had ransacked the bedroom. Drawers turned out and contents littered over the floor. His fingerprints and shoe prints painted with the victim’s blood landscaped the scene.
The problem—Freddy wasn’t the killer. He couldn’t have been. The ME had put the time of death between midnight and 2:00 a.m. His friends had given him a rock-solid alibi at the time of the death, not to mention surveillance cameras caught images of Freddy going to and from one bar to another.
Not the actions of a reformed addict, but, also, not the actions of a cold-blooded killer.
The question became why, in the midst of discovering this gruesome scene, had Freddy thought it a good time to look for something? Something he obviously didn’t find. Had the murderer?
Why had Freddy and his cousin come to visit Helen Barlow that morning? What was it that the victim had that was so damn important?
All of Helen’s friends agreed that Helen hadn’t indicated she held some devastating secret on the Ashcrofts. Helen was the loyal and responsible type. No one had heard her ever utter one negative remark about her former empl
oyers. She didn’t talk of them at all.
On his arrival at the scene, he had immediately marked the contrasts of the two separate murders. The son had been shot dead with a quick shot between his eyes with a 9mm. No hesitation.
Charlie Barlow lay with his keys in hand. Brophy assessed that Barlow interrupted the assailant’s escape. From the look on his face, Charlie hadn’t even time to realize the danger he was in.
On the other hand, Helen Barlow had been brutally beaten. Rage…fury…hatred inflicted with each blow. Overkill. A crime of passion. The problem—who was it she angered?
He couldn’t find any semblance of a love connection. She had been a widow for many years and had never dated after the death of her husband.
The right side of Helen’s head had been caved in. Pieces of brain particles splattered over the wall, bed, and floor. Blood spatter coated the whole room. The killer had begun the assault on the bed and continued onto the floor when the victim obviously made a vain effort to escape.
Blood was everywhere: the floor, the rug, the wall. The mattress was saturated with the lost life force. The stench from the dried blood still lingered in the air.
Debating the murder with the other investigators, Brophy was tired of arguing over which direction to take. To further irritate him, Waters didn’t agree with him. Waters thought it was the son who had caused his mother’s death.
Waters had confirmed the gambling debts of Charlie Barlow with the wife. Martha Barlow told Waters that Charlie had been desperate for money over the last few months. Then, last week, he had told her he had taken care of the situation. She acknowledged that she had heard that often in the past. She said that none of Charlie’s crazy schemes ever worked.
The scenario that the murders happened because Charlie owed the Russians money didn’t sit right with Brophy. It made no sense. As much as he hated to agree with Tina Cruz, her analysis felt more to the point.
If Charlie’s bookie called in his debt and wanted to make a statement, they wouldn’t have killed his mother, only to kill him the next moment. They would have wanted his money.
More to the point, one of his confidential informants told Brophy that the word on the street was that Charlie had paid off his debt. If that was true, the Russians had no reason to want him dead.
The plain fact was that the Russians weren’t this messy. Barlow’s death was personal.
That’s why he returned. Brophy came back to feel the murder.
Walking over to the bed, he surveyed the room. He imagined the killer had delivered his first blow from behind, stunning the victim. Brophy raised his arm and whipped it through the air over and over again, moving down to the floor as he swung. He leaned back up and stared at the empty space, tired from exerting so much energy.
He caught his breath and walked surefooted out the door, through the hall and into the kitchen. He stopped and glanced back. From the evidence, the killer hadn’t altered his path from the bedroom to the kitchen.
Brophy scratched his head. The assailant had to have been a bloody mess. Yet, there had been no bloody foot trail to follow, except for the idiot boy. Meaning, the killer had taken the time to remove at least his bloody shoes.
In all probability, the man—yes, his instincts cried it was a man—had come prepared. Most logically, a backpack. It would hold everything he needed: Gloves. New shoes. A place to hide the murder weapon until he could get rid of it.
But he had also brought a gun…that he hadn’t hesitated to use.
Helen Barlow suffered a brutal death. She hadn’t a chance. It had been all about the pain. The killer wanted her to pay for some insult against him. The evidence suggested he had taken his time.
How could someone so ruthlessly explode their anger on a victim and then in the next breath manage to collect themselves to the point that they left few clues…if any?
A sound behind him made Brophy turn. The back door eased open. His hand immediately went to his sidearm and unsnapped the holster.
“Good evening, John.”
Brophy watched the leggy private eye walk into the house, much like she would have if she had dropped by for a visit. He frowned. “Cruz, what are you doing? You realize that this is still a crime scene.”
A smile flickered on Cruz’s face. “You always knew how to make a girl feel welcome.”
Most times, Brophy wouldn’t have hesitated to exchange banter with an attractive woman, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight. Small talk wasted time. “I take it you hunted me down, so you must want something. What is it?”
“Wasn’t hard.” She smiled smugly. “You ignored my calls, but I called Waters. He said he thought you would be here.”
Brophy swallowed back his frustration with his partner. His irritation bore more at Waters’s absence than his divulging his location to Cruz. Waters was always a softy when it came to women.
No, his annoyance at Waters stemmed from his dinner tonight. Waters was being recruited to an elite tactical unit. For the last month, Waters’s attention centered on the possibility of the new position. Wouldn’t be long before Brophy would be needing a new partner. Hell, he needed one now.
“And?”
“You were always so impatient.” Cruz moved into the center of the kitchen, surveying the crime scene. “Walking in the killer’s shoes? Have you come up with anything?”
That jostled a laugh. “What—are you my partner now?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged and pointed down the hall. “Don’t tell me anything. Let me guess. You are struggling with the brutality of Helen’s death. How the killer could so violently murder the woman and coolly shoot the son?”
“What kind of psychopath are we dealing with then? Is it one killer or two? Who was the real target of the killer?” Brophy rattled questions at her as though she were the one being interrogated.
“Helen Barlow was the target. It was a crime of passion…someone believed she had betrayed him.”
He stared at her for a moment. She sounded so confident. “Him?”
“Walter Ashcroft,” she stated simply. “We have been looking into him. Seems he’s not exactly the persona that he presents to the public.”
“We? Don’t tell me…”
“Kincaid. He’s outside. He wants to talk to you.”
Brophy was incredulous, but he followed Cruz out back, flicking on the outside light as he did so. Kincaid was there, leaning against Barlow’s old Buick.
He frowned as he looked at the man. He hated feeling as though he was being manipulated. Probably more than anything, his irritation toward Kincaid stemmed from the fact that they both were thinking the same thing—that the Ashcrofts were involved in some form or fashion.
His eyes met Kincaid’s. Despite their differences, they both had been around long enough to understand how politics in the real world worked. If it was an Ashcroft, he was going to have to have help taking him down…even if it meant making a pact with the devil.
“Kincaid,” Brophy said crisply. “Well, let me hear what you have.”
“It’s only a theory in the making,” Kincaid began. “But after an encounter with Walter Ashcroft, I felt it was one that was worth looking into. Cruz dug deep. We believe we may have found a pattern.”
“Okay.” Brophy shrugged, waited.
Kincaid nodded and finally began. “The other day I witnessed Ashcroft verbally attack his niece. He seemed unhinged, making threats, trying to intimidate her. She shrugged it off and called his bluff, which told me she had dealt with this behavior before.”
Brophy said in a reasonable voice, “Tell me what you considered unhinged.”
“To start, the man was in a rage and stormed into the house early in the morning.” Kincaid continued until he had told the whole story. “Given the circumstances, seemed odd behavior for the man.”
“You are talking of the CEO of one of the largest corporations in the United States. You can’t just sling an accusation like that without evidence.” For the last couple of days, B
rophy had lived and breathed this case. He had become extremely familiar with the Ashcrofts. “Not to mention, I don’t think it’s a secret that there is little love lost between the two. She is suing him.”
“That makes his behavior even more suspicious. He also has plenty of people on his payroll who could have addressed any concerns with Riley, but he had to do it. He had to have control…he’s an absolute control freak.” Kincaid looked at Cruz before he continued. “We have been talking with a few associates of his. His employees refused to talk to us, but David Bowman from TSI, WAS’s leading competition, said that there are rumors that things at WAS aren’t going so well under Walter’s reign.
“For the last two years, sales have remained steady, but a series of bad investments have the board over at WAS nervous. According to the last financial report, WAS profits have dipped fifteen percent since Walter took over after his father’s death. There is even talk about ousting Walter Ashcroft and replacing him with his younger brother, Donald.”
Brophy grunted, not surprised. He had gathered much the same in his investigation, but he gave no indication of that fact. He wanted to know what they knew. “So what does Helen Barlow have to do with any of that?”
“We’re not quite sure.” Kincaid went on, “But given the fact that the younger Ashcroft turned the room upside down while Helen’s dead body lay on the floor, he believed she had something of importance…something his father prompted him to get. One more thing…were you aware that Walter Ashcroft was involved in a suspicious death back in ’79?”
Brophy arched an eyebrow. That he didn’t know.
* * * *
On most days, the drive up to Washington Ridge, New Hampshire would have been enjoyable. Scenic in the summer and in the fall, magnificent. Today, a steady rain made the view skewed, giving Brophy time to contemplate more than the case while driving.
His mind wandered back to when Lauren and he used to take the kids to Story Land every year when they were little. A nice little getaway for the family. The area offered plenty of entertainment for the children. His ex-wife had loved the rustic life of the rural area: rushing rivers and streams along the mountain trails, frothy waterfalls, and covered bridges. More importantly, it had been affordable.
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